Until The End Of My Days
by MayM
Summary: John Watson is still struggling to cope without Sherlock, and it's tearing his marriage apart. What happens when Sherlock returns?
1. Chapter 1

I lurch up in bed, eyes flashing open, drenched in sweat. "LOCK!" I cry out the last syllable, the first part of his name having ripped me from my sleep and leaving me shaking as I replay my nightmare. Every night's the same. After he left, the haunting dreams of gunshots and blood returned, but this time they ended every time with Sherlock dying, usually from attempting to shelter me from a grenade or enemy fire. I live, my comrades live, and he dies. I mourn, and stay with him until I die myself, and my comrades leave me with him, turning their backs away and carrying on with the war. I slump back on the bed, tears clogging up in my throat as the corners of my vision blur. I exhale a deep rush of warm air that hitches with the effort of holding back my emotions. Shut them off, John. After all, Sherlock had always told me the sensitive side loses. And I will not lose to the grief again. I murmur his name continuously under my breath, like a soft melody lulling me back to sleep. I barely register the soft fingers stroking my folded hands, the coolness of her wedding ring soothing against my burning skin. I peel one eye open and look into the despaired eyes of my wife. The brown iris' echo my grief, mine for losing the love of my life, and hers for never having her love of her life. My whispers fade out as her teary eyes plead me to stop, her lip corners turned down and her skin worn and tired. I open and close my mouth several times, but she shakes her head, lowering her eyes and allowing a few tears to slip over the boundaries of her eyelids. I turn my hand over and clutch at hers. I furrow my eyebrows together and croak out a "sorry". She pats my hand and nods her head once, almost in defeat, and turns over, pulling her hand away from my grasping fingers. I'm left staring at her curved back, the white silk nightie clinging to her frame. Her shoulders shake slightly, and I reach a hand up to comfort her, but she curls further in on herself and shakes me off, her heaving breaths and choking sobs of loneliness drive into my heart like a stake. I close my eyes and allow a solitary tear to roll down my cheek and trickle into my hair. Small fingers of pearl sunlight scrape through some cracks in the closed blind, but the alarm clock to the right of me tells me it's still too early to get up. I close my eyes and Sherlock's name flashes repeatedly behind my eyelids, his words ringing in my ears and sending me back to sleep, _"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street"._

Exhaling deeply, I roll over and drag my arm up to hit the snooze button as the untuned radio blares in my ears. With a groan, I rub my eyes, and then turn to see an empty bed. The smell of scrambled eggs hits my nose, and I yank the duvet away and then I peel the white sheet that clings to my skin like a memory every night off of my sweat soaked body. I sit up and swing my legs over the side of my bed, a deep, humorless chuckle rumbling in my chest. A painful memory of us sitting in Buckingham Palace together, his laughter echoing around me and filling the spacious room with the sound slashes through my mind like a knife. I shake my head, smiling a sad smile at the memory. I grab my blue dressing gown and lazily tie it around myself, before folding up the sheet and tucking it in my pillow case, away from my wife's prying, jealous eyes. His sheet. I stroke the smooth fabric, his musky scent barely a whisper on it after three long years.

"Morning, Mary," I call out as I leave the room and walk through the hallway, my voice thick with fake chirpiness.

"Hi, love," She sighs, pecking me on the cheek as I pass her. I pick up yesterday's newspaper that I never got round to reading on the table and I unfold it, scanning the newspaper for crimes even now, even when I don't have anyone to report them to and then solve them with. She comes over, back arched with her round belly, carrying two plates of scrambled eggs, toast and baked beans.

"Ta, love," I murmur, barely looking up from the newspaper as she places my breakfast in front of me. She sighs, and sits down on the chair opposite, rubbing the small of her back, the part that the pregnancy pains her the most. I glance up and smile at her, and she winces as she settles herself into the chair before smiling cautiously back.

"John... I-" I fold the newspaper back up, put my elbows on the table and put my hands together as if praying, and then I rest my nose on my fingertips. Funny how I seem to have picked up on his habits with his absence.

"Yes?" I ask softly, eyebrows raised expectantly, a kind smile curling my lips.

Her eyes cast down and she whispers, "Here, this is today's newspaper." A frown creases on my forehead, and without looking at me, she rises from the table, chucks me the newspaper and flees to the bathroom, small whimpers chasing back to where I sit. I start to stand up to follow her, but I hear the snap of the bathroom door and the heavy sound of the lock being pulled across. Her sobs echo through the house, and I pick the newspaper. I glance at the front photo, and drop it from my hands like I've been burned. I squeeze my eyes shut, count to ten and then reopen them. I tentatively pick the newspaper out of the eggs and I stare blankly at the front page. A cold warmth spreads through my body, suffocating me, drowning me in my despair.

_'FAKE GENIUS FAKE DEATH?' _Glares up at me, with a blown up photo of Sherlock. _My_ Sherlock. My eyes flick away from Sherlock's face and see who his intense stare is deducting. John. But, I haven't seen him for three years, how could this- My thoughts are cut short as I take in the rest of the scene. Angelo's. I look at what I was wearing, and yes, sure enough, it's us sitting in Angelo's waiting for the murderer to stop in the street outside. I recall back, remembering the awkward conversation I accidentally dropped us into. One of the memories that when it surfaces to my mind I don't feel like breaking down, it just makes me smile and remember how new our relationship was then, and how completely unaware I was to what that man would bring to me.

'_You have a girlfriend?'  
'Girls are not really my area.'  
'Oh...so do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way.'  
'I know it's fine.'  
'So you have a boyfriend.'  
'No.'_

But it brings no smile to my face now, not when it's spread across the page. Who had even taken this photo? And why did they choose now to publish it? I scan the page, and I see a few notes at the bottom, "Turn to Page 1 to read more" and then a photo of the interviewee. Irene Adler. I curse under my breath, her dominating smirk leering up at me from the small box.

"Irene Adler claims she has recently seen the psychopathic fake "genius" having dinner with his former assistant and blogger, John Watson, in a small restaurant, when he is in fact supposed to be dead. Could he have faked his death as well as he faked his morality?"

With an inward groan, I rise from my chair and I grab my cane. Ever since the fall my leg seems to be more painful than ever, and I've returned to using my cane when walking around. I make my way over to the bathroom door, and I rap on the door, calling her name softly. After a good two minutes, in which I hear the bin opening and closing, water being splashed, and then a few steadying breaths, the bolt slides across, and my wife stands before me, straightening her tank top that stretches over her stomach, and tossing her ruffled over over her shoulder with a flick of her head.

"Mary, why are you crying?"

She looks up and shakes her head, laughing an empty laugh. "You know, I have supported you... so much...so much... And I love you, John Watson, I do love you, but you don't love me back," I open my mouth to object, but she silences me with a finger on my lips, "Yes, you _love _me but it's because you have to, I look after you, I take care of you, I'm your wife, sure you love me, but you're not _in love _with me, like I am for you. Do you know how hard it is to be deeply in love with someone, and have them not love you back? Do you? Because I can tell you now that it's hell. Living hell. You have never admitted your love for Sherlock Holmes, and you were never romantically involved with him when he was alive, but his death awoke those feelings you had for him. Do you know how hard it is, how guilty I feel, every time I feel jealous of this Sherlock, because I'm jealous of a dead man? A dead man, John. It's so painful for me to see you have these nightmares every single night about him, but it's even more painful to see the dreams you have. You remember this morning, am I right? When you wanted to go back to sleep and decided just saying his name over and over again was going to help?" I duck my head, ashamed of myself for my selfishness. "Yeah, well that I don't mind, you did just dream about him being killed, but then it's when you go to sleep, when you can't control what you say. Previous nights, on your second time going to sleep that night, you always murmur things, things I know you wished you could have said, in that phone call. 'I love you, Sherlock.' 'Sherlock, don't jump, you can't leave me, I love you.' 'Sherlock you are my everything, don't leave me on my own.' but this morning, you said 'Sherlock, you're alive! I love you so much, don't ever leave me again.' 'Sherlock I love you, Mary doesn't mean anything to me, you're the love of my life.' And you know what John? I'm sick of competing with a dead man, although apparently, you have been having an affair with him, and he is actually alive. You've been making me feel guilty every time I catch you looking sad, or every time I feel jealous of him, and it turns out he's alive! I shouldn't feel guilty of being jealous, because it's true, you love him more than me and you love him so much you'd cheat on your wife while she's pregnant with your son!" Every word she says slashes at me in different parts, my head, my gut, my eyes, my knees, my heart.

"Mary!" I cry out, grabbing her wrists and holding them to my heart, "It's not true, I swear, he is still dead, and yes I wish with my whole heart that he was alive, but he's not, and I haven't seen him in three years. Look," I manage to drag her over to the table and I point down at myself, "That's not me. Well, it is, but not the me you know. That is me solving my first ever crime with Sherlock, can't you see how different I look? I look younger, healthier..." I trail off, and Mary's doe eyes meet my own,

"Happier?" She nods slowly, "Yeah I see it. I'm sorry for my outburst."

"No, no, no, I'm the one that should be sorry." I envelope her in a hug, and rock her back and forth, my lips pressed to the top of her head. It's nice holding someone smaller than you, I feel protective of her like this, so vulnerable and tiny in my arms. I hum an old song I can faintly remember, although from what I have no clue, and her arms wrap around my waist. We dance around in the kitchen to my humming. Somewhere in the middle of the song my mind clicks and I remember the song. It was the one Sherlock had composed about Irene when he believed she was dead.


	2. Chapter 2

"Sarah, how many patients have I got for tomorrow?" I ask, as I slip on my jacket.

She hums and types types into the computer, and then looks up at me, "You have two in the morning and then five after lunch." I sigh deeply at this, shaking my head at the stress.

"Alright, thanks. See you tomorrow then." I huff as I walk out of the door.

"See you!" She calls back, logging off the computer and gathering her own stuff up to leave. A blast of fresh air ushers me out of the door and small specks of rain pellet down on my exposed neck and face. I turn my collar up against the biting wind, and I trek back to our house. I moved out of 221B Baker Street a month after Sherlock's fall, hating the emptiness and drabness of the flat without its eccentric, wild sociopath. I remember with a small smile finding experiments in various places of the kitchen, the sprayed on smiling face and the bullet holes in the living room. I'm left wandering aimlessly, taking a trip down memory lane and forgetting about the roads currently around me.

After half an hour of walking, I lift my head and look around at my surroundings. Tears prick in my eyes as I take in the familiar, haunting street. Baker Street. I can almost feel Sherlock's absence here, how ordinary it looks without him running around and hailing taxis, without his shouting and pacing that could be heard across the street. I walk over to the apartment, the brass door handle beckoning me inside. I knock on the door, and I am soon met with Mrs Hudson. She squeals my name and brings me into a hug, her frail but strong arms keep me trapped in her embrace, and I feel my arms rise to hug her back. Her sweet perfume fills my senses and clogs my mind, until the next minute I'm sitting on her sofa balling my eyes out with her offering me tea and biscuits. I snivel, wipe my eyes and blow into a tissue, before accepting the tea. The warmth slips down my throat and spreads through my body, making me shiver delicately.

"It's so quiet now," She murmurs, her mascara slightly smudged from her own tears. "I haven't been able to rent the flat out, it just sits up there, untouched."

"You haven't moved any stuff, have you?"

"No dear, I haven't, if anyone decides they want to move in then I'll have to but I'll warn you first if they do."

I nod and mutter a thank you. "Mind if I see it? It's been so long."

"Of course dear, are you sure you want to?"

"Definite," I nod and follow her upstairs to my old flat.

She pushes the door open, and I step tentatively into the living room, everything left exactly how it was, as if I was just coming back from the shops, as if Sherlock still vacated the flat. I can see him now, sprawled across the sofa, deep in thought, barely registering I went out, he paces around, playing random notes to help him think. But he's not there. He's gone, and dead, and the flat is empty. I walk around in a small circle, before striding out of the flat, shaking my head.

"Mrs Hudson, I'm sorry but it brings back too many memories."

"Of course, dear." She closes the door, and locks it, watching my with dismay as I make my slow retreat downstairs, clutching the banister and my cane. I hug Mrs Hudson goodbye, and she hums into my hair,

"Stay in touch, dear," I know it's harsh, but 'staying in touch' with someone that reminds me of Sherlock is devastating. I rarely see Lestrade or Mycroft anymore and if so it's by accident, and I avoid going past Scotland Yard and Bart's. I pat her on the back and give a sharp nod, not making any promises. I walk away, and back to my house, away from my home.


	3. Chapter 3

For God's sake, he went to 221B, you're going to lose him if you don't do it soon.

-MH

For once in your, life reply to my texts and don't just delete them.

-MH

He has had about five arguments with his wife this month about you, wakes up screaming your name every night, his wife cries constantly, how long do you think his ordinary brain is going to last with such emotional trauma?

-MH

Don't ever call John Watson ordinary again.

-SH

I look down at my phone with dismay, my only stored contact being my brother. Life pretending to be dead is hard. My brain constantly reels, trying and trying to deduct the people I see around me, but there's no fun. They're all so ordinary, there's no crimes in this small village in Cornwall, nothing to stop me from being bored. When planning my fake suicide, I always thought the worst that could happen is that John could find a new flat mate, but I was wrong. He moved out of 221B, he left Mrs Hudson and memories of us behind, and got married. I'm happy for him, but the guilt in me drives me insane, and Mycroft's texts don't help, the fact that he constantly reminds me John still is in grief. A whirring sound comes from outside, but I ignore it. My phone pings and I open the text.

Fine, so long as you go back to him.

-MH

He loves you, Sherlock.

-MH

I love him too.

-SH

I type the last text out but I never send it. I delete the letters, and lock my phone with a heavy sigh. The door to the living room in the house my brother bought for me creaks open, and Mycroft stands there, holding his phone.

"And I know you love him too." He says softly. He shuts the door and walks towards me, towering over where I lie on the sofa. "Please come back to London."

"I thought you said caring was not an advantage?"

"It isn't. But that doesn't mean it doesn't happen. You're killing him, Sherlock, he hasn't improved. He no longer sees his therapist, but I know depression when I see it."

"He said he didn't want to see you anymore."

"I know he did, and he hasn't. I've just seen him."

I sigh and jump up, combing both hands through my curls and shaking them about, as if to clear myself of the stress and emotions I feel drowning me.

He laughs with not a trace of humour, "You realise, he has tried to commit suicide a number of times. One time, Mary won't be able to stop him. You, hiding away, pretending you're dead will make him kill himself, I don't call that protecting him, do you? And anyway, if he does kill himself, how would you live with yourself, knowing all your efforts to keep him alive weren't enough? It'll end up like some tragic Shakespearean play."

I huff out a sigh, grudgingly accepting what he says is true. "Well how do you know he won't turn me away? What if he thinks I am a fake?" I hear my voice crack at the end of my sentence, my throat suddenly becoming needle thin.

"Well at least he won't be wallowing in grief about your death, at least he'll have the choice. Surely even you aren't selfish enough to take that away from him?"

I shake my head in defeat, and lower myself to the sofa, trying to steady my shaking body.

"Come, brother." Mycroft holds out a hand, and I look up at him, meeting his pitiful eyes. I slide my hand into his, and he gently pulls me to my feet. We gather a few things up, and I walk into my bedroom to collect my valuables. For Christmas, Mycroft had taken the liberty to put together a small photo album, he managed to persuade Lestrade to give him all the cases Sherlock and John had solved information and small bits of old evidence, combined with newspaper clipping of John and Sherlock , either after or during a case.

"Here," Mycroft leans across with a small clipping. It's a small photo of John and Sherlock, together, at... Angelo's?

"Where did you find this?" I murmur transfixed on John's sheepish grin.

"This week's newspaper, turns out Miss Adler had been following you two around way before you knew of her, and for some reason she decided to use an old photo to trick everyone into thinking you faked your death. She was looking through her photos, and found some new insurance, you. She used that photo and the story that she had seen you to get her back into Britain, she bought her way back into the country. She told me just yesterday the whole thing. Now you know not to let her live next time, Sherlock." He glances disapprovingly down at me, before taking the photo out of my hands and sliding it into a slot.

I leave the house without a backward glance, not wanting to remember the days without John. We get settled in the helicopter, and I check I've got everything. The seats block view of my brother, and when the whirring sounds of the helicopter pick back up, I take out the photo album and flick through, absorbing John's smile and warmth and face, and just John. I clutch it to my chest, and I nod off to sleep, holding it closely to my heart like a teddy bear.


	4. Chapter 4

The helicopter drops us off and I slide into Mycroft's sophisticated car. I buckle up and turn to my right to see Anthea, the keys on her blackberry ticking away like rain on a tent. She looks up at me as I enter, and then her eyes return to her phone, a smile lighting up her face. Mycroft climbs into the front seat, and gives the address to the chauffeur.

"221B, Baker Street." He gives a curt nod, and swings us out of the grassy field. We rumble down the road, and I sit upright, analysing Anthea, the side of the face I can see of the driver, and what I can remember of Mycroft's face. Anthea is wearing brand new lipstick, her eyebrows were waxed yesterday, the underneath is still slightly pink, her nails, going by how particularly shiny they are, were done at the same time. Her blazer, pencil skirt and blouse cost an average total of £800, her shoes another £200. My eyes flick to the driver, He used a electric today, although from memory he always used to use a razor, I wonder what, oh of course, a polished to gleaming standard gold band wraps around his ring finger, a few small scratches that catch the light that show it's been over a year, but their marriage is in good shape. I close my eyes, turning back in my memory to when I saw Mycroft. Something was different about him, although he looked sad to see me in such a state, he had a glint in his eye, and kept remembering small things that made him blush and smile like a teenager.

"Who is she then, Mycroft?" Breaking the silence with a personal question, Mycroft's head snaps up and he asks slowly,

"Who is who?"

"Your girlfriend. It's been a while hasn't it?" I know it's not good to pick at my brother's sensitive spots after his help, but the bonding between us is making me, and him, feel quite uncomfortable. A scarlet blush blooms at the base of his neck, and he clears his throat sharply. My eyes flick to the mirror as the driver catches eyes with Anthea. The driver coughs deeply to cover his laugh, and Anthea lets out her breathy giggle.

"I don't have a girlfriend." He growls through a clenched jaw, straightening his jacket as his skin heats up with the interrogation.

"Of course you do, come on brother, you can tell me," I put both hands on the seat either side of his head and lean close, my breath teasing at the hairs on the back of his neck.

"I told you, he's not a girl!" I gasp slightly, a small tremor of a laugh inhaled into my lungs. He registers his mistake, and turns round back round to me, attempting to grab my retreating hands to try tell me he didn't mean it.

"Ho, ho, who is this man then?" A small smirk plays on my lips, to other people, getting information out of Mycroft may seem hard, but to me it's oh so simple.

"He... It's nothing." He begins to turn back around, but I grab his ear, stopping him from turning away any further without pain. He turns into my hand, and meets my eyes. I see the barriers of defense break down, and his ruler straight posture falters for a moment as he exhales deeply. "Alright, alright. It's Gregory Lestrade." I drop his ear and recoil back into my chair with a yelp. Mycroft rolls his eyes, and faces back towards the front.

"Lestrade? You're dating _Lestrade_?" I snarl with disgust.

"Yes, and I have you to thank, brother. You don't honestly think I hadn't met him before? Why, the first case he gave you I managed to kidnap him and interrogate him about you."

I lean over myself, resting my forehead on my knees with a deep groan. "First of all, when did this start, second of all, who else have you tried to persuade to spy on me?"

"Just Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and John. And it started a few weeks ago. John had gotten extremely drunk drinking, and Lestrade was down the pub planning on getting drunk, he found out his wife was cheating on him with the PE teacher,"

"I told him that ages ago!" I bellow.

"A different one to the one you are referring to. Anyway, he saw John, who for once didn't run away and break down at the sight of him, possibly because he was so drunk, and Lestrade called me, telling me he didn't have anyone else's number who knew John enough to help Lestrade comfort his drunken tears. And so, we brought him back to his house, and a worried Mary took him under her wing as usual, and left us standing on the porch in the rain. Lestrade confessed that he just left his wife for one too many affairs, and I offered him a place to stay at my house that night."

"You mean your bed," I interject viciously, is it possible that I feel jealous that Mary is the one to take care of John, even though the whole reason why she has to look after him is because of me?

He clucks his dissaprovement before continuing, "He stayed in my house for a month in the_ spare room,_" he emphasises, "And then one night he was saying how he thinks he should try find a new place, didn't want to cause me any trouble, I told him he wasn't a trouble at all, and well, one thing led to another..."

"Please refrain from telling me the details, Mycroft, I may not have eaten today but that doesn't stop me feeling sick."

"Well I'm sorry, you were the one who was so eager to find out."

I huff and lean against the window, the familiar skyscrapers of London breaking the top of the landscape.


	5. Chapter 5

_Lestrade shuts his desk drawer with a heavy sigh. He knew Sherlock was alive and it pained him to see the photo that woman had given to the newspapers, Mycroft having informed him that was taken during the case in which Lestrade had met John. He rubs his eyes and thinks of his friend, grieving over a dead man who was in fact very alive. Only he, Mycroft and Molly Hooper knew of his existence and God it was hard not to grab John and tell him everything. But he had promised Mycroft, Mycroft, his beloved Mycroft._

I'm coming in

-MH

Sure thing

-GL

_He smiles at his phone, he never used to sign off his texts,but since becoming romantically involved with Mycroft, he seems to have picked up the habit._

_Barely a minute passes, and his office door swings open. No other person in his department stayed late tonight, and Greg had many things he'd like to do to his boyfriend tonight. He licked his lips, and Mycroft entered, the suit clinging to his frame, fitting him perfectly. Lestrade rose to grab him and have him how he pleased,but Mycroft pecked him on the cheek. They had been dating long enough for Greg to know that means Mycroft isn't in the mood, yet when they draw apart, Greg sees the raw hunger and need in his boyfriend's eyes as they flick down and devour Greg's body. He steps back to allow Mycroft to come in, confused by the mixed signals, until he sees who's behind him._

"Lestrade," I nod curtly, taking in the changes in Lestrade. His muscles are still taut above his eyes from the stress of work, but there seems something at ease on his face, a glowing happiness I had never seen on his face when he was with his wife.

"Sher... Sherlock, Jesus I knew you were alive, but my God, I never thought I'd..." He continues to murmur his thoughts aloud, eyes wide with awe and mouth gaping as he takes in his old friend. He grabs me and pulls me into a hug. My eyes fly wide open, and I freeze up, standing rigidly as his arms beat against my back, a breathless laughter of relief rumbling between us. He lets go of me, still holding my biceps, before frowning and dropping his arms. He puts one hand on his hip and the other one he uses to run through his hair. "Uh... What are you doing about John? He's a complete wreck, and unless you plan to stay then I don't think it's a good idea you see him again." He turns to Mycroft as he answers for me,

"He won't be leaving, I can assure you. Despite how much my brother insists he is a sociopath and doesn't care for anyone, he was just as upset as John. And knowing how much he loves to get his way, he won't leave John again, unless such urgency like before is required, although hopefully he'll warn John beforehand." I nod, agreeing to it all, and Lestrade strides to his desk, slings his bag across his body, holds his coffee in his hand, and dangles the keys from his mouth. He then opens the door for us, and inclines his head, meaning for us to leave. I follow him out, taking in all the changes of Scotland Yard since three years before. They have repainted the walls, the board's photos have all changed to knew cases, and the desks remain the same. A few new members, after a few other people retired, and I notice with half glee half annoyance that Anderson and Donovan still work here.

We go back to their house, and I vacate the room that Lestrade once slept in. I roll over constantly, pressing down the pillow over my head to try block out the moans from the room next door.

"Shut up!" I bellow, and the moans go down to faint growls and whispers, although for only a short while, a few minutes later I hear my brother crying out, "Oh, Gregory, yes!" At that point I grab my duvet and pillows and storm downstairs to their living room, where I take over the sofa. I run through in my mind the plan we discussed earlier on, searching for any faults, and I drift off to sleep of picturing John's face of utter surprise when seeing me, and how I'll grab him and kiss him like in a fairy tale.


	6. Chapter 6

I wake up in the morning, bewildered. Had that actually just happened? I feel my pulse, it's slow, relaxed. I touch my forehead, it's damp, but only because of the strange dream I had had. _I didn't have a nightmare. _The thought flashes through my mind, and a wide smile breaks across my face. I turn over, to see a beaming Mary. She nuzzles her head into my neck and plants kisses along my collarbone, up the side of my neck, across my jawline, and then finally onto my mouth. My arms wrap around her as the kiss deepens, Her lips part and I feel her soft tongue flick across mine cheekily. A growl rumbles in my chest and I kiss her back harder, straining for more. She rips her mouth away, laughing playfully as I quickly peck kisses all over her face and neck, fighting with her to grab hold of her again. She squirms and screams as I tickle her, wrestling about on the bed. "Mercy!" She cries out, swatting me away. I lean back, and we explode into giggles, the thrill of sleeping without disturbance coursing through us both. I try think back to the dream I had, but before I can get far, Mary grabs my hand and pulls me up. I stuff my sheet under my pillow quickly before she can drag me away. We walk into the kitchen together, holding hands, sharing a moment of blissful happiness. For once, Sherlock isn't occupying my mind, tidal waves aren't suffocating me, and instead Mary, beautiful Mary, fills my mind like the soaring song of a nightingale. We cook up pancakes together, leaving the kitchen in an explosion of flour and sugar and sweet smells. I watch her finish her pancake, and she picks up a tissue to wipe her sticky lips. I grab her hand before she can reach it, and I lean in to kiss her, flicking my tongue across her lips, and into her mouth, my taste buds exploding from maple syrup, lemon and Mary. I draw back long after the taste fades off her lips and I whisper in a huskier voice than usual, "Got it," She blushes delicately, a smirk on her face.

"You better be off to work, you don't want to be late." I nod,and with a groan I leave Mary to wash up. I choose an outfit, and pull my white jumper over my head. This was always Sherlock's favourite of mine, and for once, I don't feel melancholy and loss flood through me. I go over to my bed, and pick up the sheet. Sherlock's smell barely lingers anymore, and is slightly overpowered by Mary's natural perfume of honey and vanilla. I inhale it, savouring the smell. I try remember my dream, but every time I began to grasp it, it slips through my mind like sand through an hourglass. I sigh, and leave for work.

I arrive, and greet Sarah in the hall. "Morning," I chirp. She looks me up and down with raised eyebrows.

"You look nice today, much happier too,"

"I feel it," I sigh contemptibly, and for once I'm telling the truth, if someone asked me how I am, I'd be able to say "great" instead of "fine".

I open my office door and sit down, waiting for the receptionist to buzz on the intercom.

I see my two patients, and then have an hour free before my lunch break. Without any patients, I'm allowed to go have lunch early, so long as I'm back for my next patients. I gather my folders and notes, grab my bag and walk over to the door, planning to go to some restaurant somewhere to eat and get some work done. Just as I'm about to pull the door open, Sarah pushes it forward. I stumble back, barely keeping balance of myself and my folders.

"Oh John! Sorry about this, but a patient's here and says it's urgent. I was about to see him myself but he said he must see you, something about being an old patient of his. Sorry about this, but do you think you could quickly see him before lunch?"

"Sure, sure, send him in." I walk back to my desk and drop everything, my back turned to Sarah. I hear the door close. I sort through everything, pulling out sheets that might be needed, straightening items, and then I twist the computer screen, lean over the desk and log back in. I turn the computer back around and put both hands on the desk, drop my head and I scrunch up my eyes, trying to remember my dream. My back muscles bunch up under the pressure. I stay like this for a few minutes, waiting for the buzz of the intercom. It doesn't come. I walk around my desk, eyes closed still, trying to remember why I found it so comforting yet unusual, and I sit down in my chair. No luck. With a sigh, I open my eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

Sarah shuts the door behind me, and John stands in front of his desk, shoulders hunched and tight, the stress spiraling off him and spreading through the room. His shoulders relax, but the muscles are still stiff. Even the behind of him washes me over with emotions, fear, love, sadness, guilt, joy, so much that my shaking knees barely support me. But I don't dare make a sound. Not until he sees me from just seeing. Observing. This whole morning had been preparation for this. Mycroft had called in a bunch of people who all buffered my face, powders and brushes choking me, different outfits covering me up until they were finished. The finished result was marvelous. I was dressed in a cardigan and chinos, with braces going over my checkered tucked in shirt. I had a cane that I bent over and used when first entering the GP, but now I stand tall and straight, watching John's head. The makeup artists had coated my face and created wrinkles and small freckles. They had slid in hundreds of tiny white hairs into my curls, just to add to the effect. He walks behind his desk and sits down, eyes tightly shut, eyebrows plastered in a frown. Even now, I can see the held back sadness, the slight twitch of his lips now and again as they begin to turn down, lines of worry imprinted on his skin around his eyes and mouth. I smirk as he holds his hands up in my signature thinking pose. He titles his head, scrunching his nose up, as if trying to remember more. He drops his face off all emotion, although his eyebrows are still slightly pulled up across to the bridge of his nose, and his eyes open. They flick up at me in surprise, eyebrows shooting up, and then they furrow down as he takes in my face, "I thought you said you were an old patient of mine?" He asks, and his eyes meet mine. A flash of recognition flies across his face, and then is replaced by heart breaking sadness. He lowers his face with a humourless laugh. He looks back up, not meeting my eyes, the eyes he knows, sorry, thinks, are mine.

"John, it's me." I murmur. His eyes snap back up to my face, and he rises from his chair, trembling all over and shaking his head,

"Who? Who are you?" He asks, fear of being let down clear across his face.

"I think you know." A smile breaks across my face, and I answer, "It's me, Sherlock." He stops his approach, mouth slack and eyes roaming my face, his takes in my cheekbones, my mouth, my eyes, and I can see the information clicking together in his brain. He stumbles suddenly, his head spinning. I lean forward and catch his forearms. "John, don't worry, it's okay, I'm here now."

His eyes roll around in their sockets as he regains control of his body. His bleary eyes meet mine again, his voice crackly and faint,

"Sher... Sherlock?"

"Yeah," I breath. His cane rests against his desk, I notice with dismay. He pulls back, standing straight, and faces me. A lopsided smile forms on his face and he begins to take a step back. A spark of different emotions battle across his face. He leans back slightly, and before I can register what he's doing, he spins across and connects his fist with my jaw. I stumble back and he reels around, spinning and screeching incoherent words. I pick up a few as my visions whirls and I grab the door handle, steadying the spinning room. "YOU GO... FUCK... ALONE... SHERLOCK... SELFISH... MISS... FUCK... SHIT... BASTARD... AWFUL...HELL... FUCKING," John has punched me once before that, but I was prepared, and it barely hurt. This time however, the force was so powerful I thought I was going to take off the ground and crash into the wall. His wedding ring had split the bottom of my jaw open, and blood trickled down my disguise. He finishes his rant, and turns to look at me, fists curled at his sides and breathing heavily. "But I have fucking missed you, Sherlock, don't ever leave me again." His face crumples, and he falls into my arms, squeezing around my middle tightly. Unused to hugs, I tentatively wrap my arms back around him, and we stand together, as one. After a while he draws back, and grabs my wrist. He stand me next to the desk and draws the chair facing the desk around and next to his chair. He sits down and I follow suit, falling into the push leather. He then opens the bottom drawer and pulls out a first aid kit. He rifles through and pulls out some antiseptic. He puts some on a tissue, and then dabs my cheek, sheepishly smiling at me. I roll my eyes and we start to giggle, our laughter swilling around us like an old forgotten song. He continues to wipe, and soon begins wiping away the rest of my makeup. Hours to put on, seconds to take off.

"I guess you want to know how I did it, huh?" He shakes his head.

"I don't want to know, I don't want to remember that day. So long as you're here now, everything's alright. Sherlock, I don't know how to say this but..." His voice falters as we lock eyes, a blush creeps up to his cheeks but he doesn't turn his gaze away, "I, I think, no sorry I know, that I am-"

"In love with you," I interject, a bashful smile playing on my lips, "I'm in love with you, Dr John Watson." His eyes widen and a smile breaks across his face. He slowly moves forward, the cold tissue falling from his grasp and onto the floor. I dip my head down as he turns upward, and our lips meet. His suspended hand cups my cheek, and slowly I raise my own hand. I stroke the back of his neck, coaxing the kiss further. The kiss isn't heated and our lips stay firmly shut, instead it's soft, and new, and wonderful. His hand massages my thigh and I feel bolts of electricity run up and down my spine. My other hand reaches around his hip and holds him in place. The sounds of our kisses fill my ears, and soon a deep rumble of pleasure shudders through my chest, and John's lips gradually part, opening mine with them. His tongue slips inside my mouth, the warmth blossoming through my entire body, every nerve awake and tingling. He pulls away, drawing a moan from my throat from his absence. He chuckles and presses his forehead against my own, his voice breathless, "That was... amazing," I hum my agreement. He leans back in his chair, and twines his fingers through mine.

"What do we do know?" He asks, a mischievous glint lighting up in his eyes. Surprising even myself, I leap on to John and saddle him, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling his face up to mine. Our lips meet again, and this time they're strong, heated, desperate, _ravenous. _He moans as I comb my fingers through his hair and clutch at it, his hands curling around my back and scratching at my clothes.


	8. Chapter 8

He tears our lips away and kisses down my throat, nibbling at the sensitive flesh above my collarbone. I tip my head slightly away from his, sighing his name. His mouth then moves up and nips at my ear, a small yelp leaving my lips. He chuckles and licks at my earlobe before returning to my mouth. He rocks his hips back and forth, causing my world to spin with lust. He draws back, lowering his gaze to where our hips meet. He bites at his lower lip, and looks up at me under his lashes, the rawness of his want stirring something inside of me. He shifts off of my crotch, and sidles off my legs. He then slumps back into his chair, closing his eyes. "Sherlock?" I question, worry thick in my voice.

"I... I can't John. I can't do this to you."

"Do what?"

"You have Mary. I'm not going to tear apart your family."

"Sherlock, I don't love Mary, I love you. I always have, I just never knew it. And I know you love me too." His tearful eyes meet mine, "Please, Sherlock, we can work this out, I want to be with you."

"John, please don't make this harder than it is. Yes, I love you, but I don't deserve you. Out there, Mary is worrying about you, hoping you'll love her as much as she loves you, and here you are kissing another person. You need to be there for Mary, you need to be there for your child." I lower my head.

"Don't leave me again." I whisper, my voice hoarse and cracking. A tear slips down my cheek, but I don't wipe it away. The saltiness tingles on my tongue as it rolls into the corner of my mouth. "Don't leave me again, Sherlock, please don't do this to me."

He leans forward and grasps my hand, "I won't leave you, because I'm not dead. I 'll always be here with you, in here," He touches my heart, feeling the racing pulse. "And you'll be in mine, until the end of my days. You just have to promise me one thing, John." He lowers his head, avoiding my gaze.

"Anything, Sherlock, anything at all."

"Don't forget about me," He whispers. I lift his chin and stare into his watery eyes, the light coming through the blinds making them sparkle and gleam.

"Never, I'll never forget you, Sherlock."

He shakes his head, "You don't know that. You'll remember me every couple days, then soon it'll be every few weeks, every few months, until it's rare that you remember me, until I'll just fade away from your mind. Then one day when you're old with grandchildren you'll remember me faintly, and with a smile remember back to our days solving crimes together, my restlessness and your strong loyalty. But then, you'll lose your memory, and with that every memory that we share. I want you to take this, John, I want you to remember me, I want to stay with you in your heart until your dying day." He pulls out his scarf and holds it out to me. I shake my head but he insists, "Please, John, I want you to keep this, I want to know you still have part of me with you." I nod, and take the scarf. I then pull my jumper off my head and I give it to him.

"I know mine might be hard for you to carry around, but I want you to keep this, you always said it was your favourite."

"I haven't worn that scarf in three years John, I can't take something you'll wear again."

"And you think I've worn this before today? Of course I haven't Sherlock. It hurts too much." He takes the jumper and nuzzles it into his face, inhaling my scent.

"Now we'll never forget."

"Sherlock, can't you just stay in London, solve crimes together again, just stay friends?"

"No John, it'll never be the same, not when I love you. No, this way is better. This way we have the memories, the good and the bad." He falls into my arms, his head resting on my shoulder, the cold tears seeping through my shirt.

"Sherlock, you are my love, you are my life, you are my everything. I was so alone before you came, you saved me Sherlock."

"I was alone too John, I had never felt love, never had a friend. You gave this to me John, and I never want to let that go." He pulls back and looks me straight in the eye, "Don't do what you did before John, be there for Mary, I'm still alive, and I'm with you forever."

"I won't, Sherlock, I promise. I'll be there for her, like you were there for me."

"Thank you, John, my dear John." He leans forward and his lips touch mine, unlike the other two, this is more of a whisper against mine, and I can taste the final goodbye. At least I'm prepared this time. Our tears roll down silently and meet in between our cheeks, and then fall to our laps as a mix of his and mine. He completes me. We tear apart, and he rises to leave. "I love you, for forever and always."

"I love you too, with my whole heart, and I will love you, until the end of my days." He smiles sadly at my words, and leaves me at my desk, if I wasn't holding his scarf I would think it was all a dream.


	9. Chapter 9

I cover my face and walk outside. I meet my brother in the small cafe next to John's work. I enter the cafe with a tinkling bell, and Mycroft meets my eyes. He nods, and I approach them.

"Well, how'd it go?" Lestrade asks, a smile breaking across his face at my tousled hair and flushed face. But Mycroft sees the pain in my eyes. Without looking away from me, he replies for me,

"He let John go." Lestrade's face falls, and he pulls the chair away from the table. I sit down, and flick my eyes around the cafe. I try deducting people, but without John, it's so hard. No one there to tell me how brilliant that was anymore, no case to solve by figuring out about their life. What's the point anymore, what is the bloody point?

"I want to go back to Cornwall please."

"Already?" Mycroft questions, and then sighs heavily, "Alright, it shall be arranged. Let's go." We rise, and they pay the bill. The ride home is completely silent.


	10. Chapter 10

Later that day, I remembered my dream. I dreamt of Sherlock watching over me as I lived my life. I dreamt of him being there as my son learnt to walk, I dreamt of him being there on his first day of school, of the day he graduated from university, the day he got married, the day Mary died, he held my hand and comforted me, because deep down I did love her. And then he was there at my deathbed, and that time it was my turn to say goodbye, say goodbye to my saviour, say goodbye to my best and oldest friend, and to say goodbye to the love of my life.

Now am I old, and I have grandchildren. Mary had given birth to one child, a boy we named Sherlock. He has his intellect, and sometimes I see Sherlock in him, sometimes hen he's happy I can see Sherlock talking rapidly along with him, pacing about and jumping when something exciting happens. Luckily, he doesn't have the moodiness of Sherlock, although I can now look back at my Sherlock's tantrums with a laugh, the way he'd mope about 221B ignoring me when I was there, yet talking to me when I was gone. I kept the scarf. I wear it in the same way he used to, and when I die, I will have it buried with me along with his old sheet, so Sherlock really does stay with me forever and always.

After Sherlock left me that day in my office, I called up my therapist, I see her every few days when I feel particularly sad, so I didn't have to burden Mary anymore. She told me writing letters would help ease the pain, and I do. I write letters even now, and pass them on to my therapist. She says it's so anytime I want she can give them back to me so I can read through them, putting my feelings and emotions down on paper helps, and reading them back would help me find a solution. But I don't. I like to try kid myself Sherlock really does receive them, and they're not shoved in a drawer in my therapist's desk.

I will always love Sherlock, and what he said is true. He lives on in my heart until the end of my days.


	11. Chapter 11

It doesn't hurt so much anymore, living without my John. I still flick through the photo album, treasuring his face and smile. He stopped blogging about a decade ago, but I read every single one of his blogs before then. He no longer had such exciting things going on, but it was comforting reading about his life with Mary, and his son. I know that if I ever had a son, I would call it John, and if I ever had a daughter, I would call her Mary, for she was the one that saved my John. For a few years after our goodbye, he helped out at Scotland Yard in his spare time, solving crimes we should have been solving together. It made me smile reading of the deductions he made, the skills he had learnt from his time with me. The photo of him was changed, he was wearing his black jacket, and wrapped around his neck is my scarf. I printed a copy off, it's the last photo in the album.

He writes letters to his therapist, which Mycroft has sent to me. It's comforting reading these, the fact that he loves me still fills me with joy, and the fact that he is able to carry on lets me carry on too. I've been forbidden to write back, but I still write replies, and keep them with all the letters. I flick through them all every once in a while, as if reading a conversation between us.

I pick up the last one he ever wrote me, the last one he will ever write me, and I read it, allowing the few tears to slip down my cheeks:

_Dearest Sherlock,_

_You were wrong, you know. I am now eight seven, my old friend, and I still remember you. I still love you. Every day you are in my mind. I still have your scarf, I wonder if you still have my jumper. Life is okay here, I visit Mary's grave every Sunday, the pain still fresh in my heart, but I don't miss her nearly as much as I miss you. I feel guilty admitting it, but I never loved her or anyone like I love you._

_Mycroft and Greg are very close with our family, Sherlock actually calls them uncle, which I guess means you're his uncle too. Part of the family._

_Mycroft promised he'd tell me if you died, so at least I know that somewhere you are thinking of me too. And maybe you still love me, maybe you've found someone, but he never tells me that. At least I know I'm the lucky one, I'm the one that gets to have you alive, right up until my final breath. I'm dying, Sherlock. They predict within a week now. I just want you to know, even without your scarf, I would have remembered you. I still love you Sherlock, like you said, forever and always. I hope you still remember me, I hope you still love me too. I love you Sherlock, until the end of my days._

_Forever and always,_

_Your John Watson_


End file.
